


Pinto High School AU Trilogy, Part 1 - Stereotypical

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, First Time, Homophobia, Humor, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU written for this prompt from the <a href="http://caughttheact.livejournal.com/6920.html">Pinto kink meme</a>: <i>Chris is a dick to Zach about him being gay, but then he has a big gay epiphany and something happens.  Run riot with it, just keep it Highschool!AU.</i>  Oh, did I ever run riot.  I twisted this prompt so thoroughly that it basically just imploded.  My apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinto High School AU Trilogy, Part 1 - Stereotypical

**Title:** Stereotypical  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** Zach/Chris  
 **Warnings:** Contains not so nice bullying and dub con.  
 **Author's Notes:** High school AU written for this prompt from the [Pinto kink meme](http://caughttheact.livejournal.com/6920.html): _Chris is a dick to Zach about him being gay, but then he has a big gay epiphany and something happens. Run riot with it, just keep it Highschool!AU._ Oh, did I ever run riot. I twisted this prompt so thoroughly that it basically just imploded. My apologies.

 

 

  


*

Chris hears him before he sees him. Takes a steadying breath before he charges out of the door, obsessed with maybe, just maybe managing to make it to AP English without running into—

"Woah, Chris! Where's the fire?" Zach calls as he races past. Zach's friends laugh and Chris can glimpse the malicious grin on his face before ducking into room 322. "Okay, nice talking to you!" Zach says to another round of laughter.

The teacher favors Chris with a sympathetic little smile and Chris really hates that his all-encompassing unpopularity is obvious even to _her_. He sighs and pulls out his copies of Crime and Punishment, both the school issue and his own, more decently translated one. Reminds himself that he should stop being aware of the looks his classmates give him for, holy shit, being in class _on time_ as they file into the room. Reminds himself that this is the only class he doesn't passionately dread. Except for band.

Well, sort of.

*

The bell rings and Chris is poised and ready, lunges for the door and half-walks, half-skips by the lazily forming lines of classes letting out, _just_ manages to get ahead of the gigantic Chem II lab crowd and makes a beeline for the band room.

Most of the flute section is already there since they're taking Music Appreciation for an easy A together. The blondest one glances up and sees him and giggles something to the others.

Chris waits until he's at the lockers to heave a sigh, blissfully alone for the moment. It really won't do to approach the music in a bad mood to begin with. Especially considering—

" _Hey_ , Chris," Zach says, flanked by other brass players. "Um, do you need help opening your locker? The invisible lock can be pretty tricky, I know . . ."

Chris stares forcibly ahead at his clarinet case, yanks it out of the locker and pretends to be fixing the name tag when he pushes past Zach and company. Pretends not to hear the laughter in his wake.

He grabs the folders for the rest of the woodwinds along with his own—a thankless little courtesy but it does piss the brass players off, especially because he takes his time and blocks their folders and just generally makes sure they're never quite ready in time for tuning.

More students trudge into the band room, hungry and unmotivated, and little gossipy groups form once they figure out that the band director's late. The blonde flute girls still giggling, the percussionists playing cadences and tuning like they actually need to warm up, dorky horn players trying to figure out Star Wars, quiet clarinetists sitting innocuously around Chris in the most ineffective human barrier ever, leaving him wide open for attack if only because their own awkwardness pales in comparison to Chris's. Apparently.

Blatty, trumpet pedal tones followed by stupidly high notes pinched out and cracked soon thereafter as though it's impressive. Chris rolls his eyes and sticks a reed in his mouth, ignores Zach being praised and egged on to destroy his embouchure as quickly as possible. He deeply hopes that Zach fucks up his solo today.

*

After band Chris puts his clarinet the way in record time, makes it to the front of the lunch line and safely away to a shitty corner table that the masses tend to avoid, is just pulling out an Emily Dickinson anthology when said shitty table wobbles and he looks up, directly into Zach Quinto's consciously rakish face.

" _Hey_ , Chris, this seat taken?" he asks, sitting down without waiting for an answer. He's alone—what the fuck?

"Actually, it is," Chris says, refusing to look at him, busying himself with flattening the spine of his book out on the table. It wobbles again and squeaks in time with Zach's grating laughter.

"Um, I think we both know you're not exactly Mr. Popular."

Chris won't look up. "Mm. Very astute. Maybe it's because I'm some kinda violent psychopath with an unquenchable thirst for the blood of douchebags like you."

"Well in that case then I probably _should_ befriend you before you go on a crazy shooting spree, huh?"

Chris glances up, just waiting for Zach's trumpet playing lunch buddies to pop up and attempt to give him a wedgie or something equally afterschool special. He really wouldn't put it past them. "So. Where's your posse today? Having their spines removed?"

Zach runs a hand through his ridiculously over-gelled, slicked back hair as though it's the epitome of charm. "I dunno why you've always gotta be so bitchy . . ."

"Yeah? Well I dunno what your apparent obsession with me is, so there you go." He goes back to Dickinson.

Zach's hand lands over the verses and Chris considers stabbing it with the nearest fork. A whole lot of people would probably thank him for it. Chris clears his throat pointedly.

"What, you mean you can't read through my hand?" Zach laughs, leaning closer to cover the other page with his other hand. "How about now?"

Chris doesn't react. Waits until Zach opens his mouth again to start reciting/glaring at him:

" _I'm nobody! Who are you?_  
Are you nobody, too?  
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!  
They'd banish us, you know.

 _How dreary to be somebody!_  
How public, like a frog   
To tell your name the livelong day  
 To an admiring bog!"

Aaaand Zach is effectively silenced. Chris can't hold back a smirk. "I believe now is when you call me a fag for memorizing poetry."

Zach just shrugs, regarding Chris as if for the first time. He backs off, still miraculously speechless, and concentrates on his food. Chris would be content to leave it at that but Zach keeps shooting Chris these _looks_ in-between bites . . .

" _What?_ "

"Nothing. I just never noticed your . . . Just, you'd look a lot better if you didn't hide behind those fucking nerd patrol glasses. Just sayin'."

Chris raises his eyebrows. "Riiight, okay. I'll keep that in mind." Goes back to Dickinson, determined to ignore Zach away. He'll get bored eventually, and then Chris can tuck into his own lunch without worrying that Zach will find something to mock about Chris's eating habits. But the guy isn't budging.

"I'm actually supposed to wear glasses," Zach tells him. "But—"

" _God_ , that's fascinating."

"They're like too tight though, so I never wear—"

"Maybe if you _did_ wear them, you'd be able to, I dunno, see." Chris hunkers down into his book, practically glaring at the couplets now, does so for a small eternity before he hears Zach's fork clink and his chair scuffle and looks up to find him gone.

*

Chris is far sleepier than he has any right to be by 3 in the afternoon, but they wouldn't let you drink coffee in the high school lobby so you had to finish it up outside and it had been much too cold today for Chris to take more than two scalding gulps before the warning bell had rung. And so, sleepy. He doesn't have time now to run down the street for more coffee before the bus leaves. In fact, he has to _run_ , fuck, just to make the bus because he'd been too engrossed in Shakespeare during last period math to beat the crowd to his locker and around the science hallway and out the side door. The fucking melting February slush hadn't helped either, and now he was sprinting through hordes of freshmen who couldn't drive yet with soaking wet, squelching shoes.

He does manage to make the bus, though, and even grabs the last window seat all the way in the back and furthest from the hyperactive freshman. Sighs and lets his forehead rest against the icy glass, wipes away some condensation to look out into the parking lot where most of the other upperclassman tend to loiter.

It's easy to find Zach among them, holding court by the car his mommy and daddy had bought him and dressed all in black like it's really all that innovative. Zach leans against the roof of his car while one of his adoring fans is talking, and even from faraway Chris can see how raptly Zach is listening. Like, way too intensely. Like, his eyes wandering and his face noticeably pinker.

The bus roars to life and rattles against Chris's skull until he's forced to look away. Pulls out Crime and Punishment since he's bored and might as well read ahead.

*

The next day finds Chris especially apprehensive of the 4 yard dash from Meteorology to English, but then again it's entirely possible that Zach's already forgotten about yesterday. He's a busy guy with places to go and others besides Chris to humiliate, after all.

Chris considers trying another tactic—perhaps taking cover in the bathroom between classes and coming late to class. Mrs. Mead is desperately in love with him, anyway.

So Chris takes his time packing up his empty notebook and superfluous writing materials for the only class he's ever been _encouraged_ to keep his head in the clouds for and slips out into the hallway right in the middle of the rush, forces himself not to look over at Zach's locker and ducks into the bathroom, surprised by the pastel blues of the tile and realizes abruptly that he's never actually used the bathroom at school before. He drops his bag to the floor so he can clean a smudge off of his glasses—

" _Hey_ , fancy finding you here, Chris," Zach says, appearing out of nowhere. I mean, had he been like lying in wait just in case Chris decided to relieve his bladder today? Whatever—at least he's alone. Fixing his hair in the mirror without bothering to glance over at him. "What, are you stalking me or something?"

"I could ask you the same—"

"Haha! Oh my God he totally is, dude," one of Zach's friends says, and Chris looks on in horror as they follow him into the bathroom like ducklings waddling after their mother.

Zach laughs and looks at him, and considering that one of Chris's primary goals in life is to avoid Zach Quinto's eyes, the force of them catches him off guard. Wide and dark and full of glee and, man, Zach is positively _constructed_ out of contrasts—black hair and pale skin, boyish grin and cruel syrupy tone of voice: "Woah. Chris. Buddy. I don't know how to tell you this, I mean, I'm gonna try to let you down easy, but seriously, I'm not a cocksucker. Aw, look at that face! Just, I'm really sorry. Try not to go kill yourself over it, okay?"

Chris rolls his eyes, picks up his bag again. "Seriously?"

"Oh man," henchmen #2 says, "he's gonna cry or something . . ."

Chris laughs. "Yeah, I'm fucking heartbroken over here." He slips past them before they can think of a response, Zach attempting to lean into his path and making it so Chris has to push into him just to get through. "Enjoy your totally heterosexual little circle jerk, guys!"

*

Chris's locker slams seconds after he's pulled his clarinet out. He sighs. "Hello, Zach."

"Hey. You miss my pretty face?"

"Oh, yes. I cry myself to sleep at night, let me tell you. You simply can't imagine the profound effect your every word has on my life in general. And _now_ you have to move so I can—" Zach pushes him back against the locker and Chris gasps involuntarily. He's never actually been physically bullied before.

"You little fucking bitch," Zach laughs, way too close to him. Where the fuck are the other brass players, anyway? "You're really carrying a torch for me, huh?"

Chris snorts. "I'm curious, do your formidable powers of deductive reasoning carry over into your school work and make all the teachers jealous, thus explaining your being held back two years? Or, wait a second, could there be another explanation for that? Perhaps how ridiculously fucking _retarded_ you are?"

Zach pushes him harder into the locker and just _stares_ at him, pupils blown and sweat as his temple and breathing sped up—

Footsteps from the band room and Zach backs off, leaving Chris just as wide-eyed and breathless.

*

Chris makes sure to keep track of the time during last period today, has everything carefully stowed and ready to go before the bell rings. He takes the crappier staircase and makes it through the science hallway long before most of the other students have even lumbered out of their seats. He's so pleased with his little plan coming to fruition that he's smiling as he rounds the corner to the side entrance and is barely paying attention when he runs right the fuck into something and lands on his ass with the contents of his bag spilling over the dirty tile. And he can't even move because something is like holding him down . . .

Chris looks up into Zach's dark eyes. "Fuck," he says, attempting to scramble away but Zach just pins his wrists and settles more comfortably on top of him.

" _Hey_ , Chris," Zach says.

"You know, this won't do much to dispel all those rumors about us, or rather just about me, that you've taken such delight in spreading all day."

"Heh." Zach just studies Chris's face, scrutinizing him in this weird casual way that has Chris hell bent on winning their little staring contest.

But the stampede approaches, their thundering footfalls echoing down the hallway. Zach shrugs and gets off of him, plunges his hands into his pockets in what is meant to be nonchalance but comes off as petulance, a little kid being denied a toy, kicks Chris's Complete Works of Shakespeare out of reach before he walks away.

*

The next day Chris decides to simply skip Meteorology altogether and hang in the library until English. This way, he can take the stairs from the other side of the building and avoid Zach's locker altogether.

What he _doesn't_ count on, however, is the possibility that Zach would be standing in the middle of the hallway waiting for him. Chris stops a couple of feet away so they can appraise one another since apparently Chris's life is now a western.

"Hey! How's my favorite pansy?"

"I really wouldn't know," Chris says, faking Zach out and making a break for the door—

Zach catches his wrist, pulls Chris against him like they're fucking ballroom dancing. "What? You still wanna suck my cock so bad? _God_ , I'm just not into that shit, man. I mean, just ask any member of the cheerleading—"

Chris laughs. "Uh huh. Sure."

Zach shrugs. "It's not my fault they're a bunch of cock sluts. Heh. You know, I think you might just be jealous that they actually _get_ a piece of this . . ."

"Yeaaah, I'm pretty sure most of those girls don't quite have enough brain cells to differentiate sex and your persistent flirting that borders on harassment. So."

"Does that mean you consider _this_ ," and Zach spins Chris around until he has him up against a locker with his face smushed against the metal, "'sexual harassment'?"

Chris raises his eyebrows, not that Zach can see. "Does that mean you consider this flirting?"

Zach laughs, but Chris has had enough experience with the different categories of Zach's laughter that he can hear the note of panic in it. Zach steps back and Chris turns around, pushes his glasses up his nose.

Zach shuffles his weight around nervously. "Um, yeah, I'm not a fucking faggot like you, Chris."

Chris grins. "Mmhmm. Sure you're not. Tell me, do most straight guys ogle their friends' asses whenever the opportunity presents itself? Or constantly assault fucking faggots like me?"

"Wow . . ."

"Maybe you only pick on me because you think I'm gay, too. Maybe that's why you hate me so much. It's all very Freudian, really . . ."

Zach lets his eyes bulge, tries to make sure Chris knows how fucking weird he is. "Suuure. Okay, see you around. Fag."

And that's how Chris discovers his secret weapon.

*

Chris manages to avoid Zach at the band lockers, is testing his reeds and minding his own business when the inevitable racket/fanfare from the trumpet section breaks his concentration. He tries not to give them the satisfaction of his attention but it's just too fucking loud, ears angled as they are to absorb all the sound, and he's forced to turn his head just to get some relief.

Zach is the shiny focal point of the room. It has to do with his stupidly slicked back hair and his trumpet, which is silver-plated and top of the line unlike the rest of the section's beat up brass alloy models. His human accessories, flanking him just so, also help him to stand out. And the whole black from head to toe thing.

He's playing that etude that trumpet players always play, and Chris suspects that the reason for this is because it's the only etude written for trumpet _ever_. It's certainly obnoxious enough to make other composers think twice.

But no matter how obnoxious his shininess or however loud his 'warm up', Zach never ever misses a cue or fucks up his solo. Ever.

Chris doesn't realize he's staring until Zach catches his eye and winks over the bell of his trumpet. Chris jumps, prompting a smattering of giggles from the flutes and palpable relief from the other clarinets, and I mean, normally Chris doesn't mind taking all the heat for the rest of his socially awkward section, but today? Zach is just _not allowed_ to get to him.

I mean, it's just ridiculous—Chris doesn't give a shit about anything or anyone school related and there are, like, negative amounts of shit giving when it comes to Zach Quinto. So.

Zach plays through his solo, tone warm and smooth to contrast with his bright red and bloated face. His eyes glint in concord with the metal and stay locked right onto Chris's as he plays on, far more beautifully than immature assholes should be able to.

What a gorgeously tapered note . . .

Chris _really_ hopes he fucks up today.

*

Zach had transferred in in seventh grade from St. Sebastian's, and just like the rest of the Catholic influx, he'd floated easily to the top of the public school food chain. Perhaps this had contributed to his entitlement, but being a spoiled rich kid had probably laid the groundwork, really . . .

Okay, so, Chris doesn't _mean_ to spend lunch period trying to figure out what makes idiots the way they are, but goddammit, Crime and Punishment is boring and Zach's sitting nearby and keeps stealing his attention away.

It's not Chris's fault.

*

They have a test in last period math and because Chris doesn't care about double checking due to the fact that he is no longer 10 years old, he's done before most of the class and arrives safely at his locker almost half an hour before school is technically over.

What he doesn't know is that this is apparently Zach and company's designated class skipping time. Chris can hear their douchebaggery echoing down the hallway. Chris almost always hears Zach before he sees him.

He tries his best to open his locker silently and almost succeeds until he's  
about to leave and turns and knocks his heavy, book-swollen bag against the metal. The sound is magnified dramatically by the emptiness of the hallway like the goddamn Ring of Power or something.

The voices around the corner pause and Chris throws all caution to the wind and just starts running, runs right past the cross section of the hallways and right past them and right out the front door before remembering that the buses are nowhere in sight because fuck, duh, school isn't over yet. And _shit_ he can't exactly dash back inside now to look for a better hiding place because they're right on his heels and _God_ is he ever getting sick of this _shit_ . . .

Zach's the first one to burst out the door, panting and flushed and high on the chase, flashes a wide grin when he sees Chris stationary and vulnerable and saunters up to him, grabs his chin in his hand and makes Chris look at him. Chris ought to be afraid, but instead finds himself fixating on the unusual length of Zach's eyelashes. "Hey, baby," Zach says, so sure of himself. "You think you can—"

"Can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man," Chris interrupts, and Zach makes a face right before Chris laughs and kicks his shin, escapes too quickly for them to follow.

*

Chris isn't surprised when they find him at his locker the next morning, one of them closing it while another takes Chris's bag while Zach manhandles him until he has Chris trapped, encircles Chris's wrists and holds them hard against the metal. Chris doesn't retaliate, concentrates instead on slowing the beating of his heart. He doesn't really think Zach is going to beat him up in the middle of a crowded hallway—in fact he doesn't really think Zach has it in him to do so _ever_ —but all the sudden attention, even though it's negative, is having an undeniable effect on him. He practically looks forward to these encounters, now, anticipates them at the very least. They serve as a confirmation of his outsider status, and if Chris has succeeded in totally alienating himself from that particular caliber of sentient being that are his 'peers', then he has succeeded indeed. And if _that_ means a lame-ass bully like Zach Quinto is gonna try to threaten him, then so be it.

Chris can feel Zach's heat this close. He can smell hairspray and witness the shower-fresh ruddiness of his face. Zach takes off Chris's glasses and hooks them on Chris's shirt, fingernail trailing over skin.

"What, you gonna recite some poetry at us?" Zach says.

Chris shakes his head, mostly in exasperation. "I think the way you've constructed such an elaborate imaginary conflict between us is very telling."

Zach quirks an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah. And I think maybe just being out and proud would really help you work through your issues with mental retardation."

One of Zach's friends (and Chris has secretly dubbed them Larry, Curly, and Moe) laughs and shoves Chris a little. "Holy shit, dude, is he calling _you_ a fag now? Dude . . ."

Larry and Curly respond with a chorus of _dude_ 's. Chris just smiles, that panic from before clearly present in Zach's eyes, a hint of pleading in their captivatingly dark depths. Chris speaks over the gaggle: "He's here, he's queer. Get used to it." Grins unrepentantly.

Zach leans closer, and now he's just _angry_ , and doesn't he know that that will only encourage Chris? "You're such a—"

"Fucking faggot. Yeah, I know. But at least I don't possess a harem of attractive male youths to keep about my person at all times for my viewing pleasure. And don't, like, you know, grab the nearest fucking faggot and press up against him until he's just as explicitly aware of your boner you are. So."

Zach's jaw unhinges a little and Chris's smile broadens. He pushes himself off the locker and lands flush against Zach's body, breathes in his breath. And yeah, Zach really is turned on. Getting to him like this sends a smug victorious rush through Chris's veins.

Unfortunately the Stooges are much too oblivious to notice, move in to extrapolate Chris like the good little indoctrinated bodyguards that they are and sneer and Moe is pulling his arm back like he might just chance hitting Chris right there in the swarm of students. Chris kind of hopes he does, since it would get them suspended like clockwork and Zach could talk his way out of it and then they could . . . Okay, what the fuck?

"Hey, guys, cut it out," Zach says, drags Chris away from them and turns softened eyes on him and his hand is so warm on Chris's arm . . .

The bell rings and Chris makes his getaway.

*

Chris takes the childish route after that, skips English and band in order to read in the library all day instead. It's not that he's actually afraid of Zach or his friends, it's just that he's starting to get sick of all the drama now.

Yeah.

He ploughs through several acts of Richard III before he realizes he's starting to think in iambic pentameter and switches to Dickinson until it's time for math class. He's gotta practice this weekend, though, so he makes a pit stop in the band room, finds it unlocked and empty and is yawning when he turns the corner into the lockers.

He slings his clarinet case over his shoulder, stifles another yawn and considers going for coffee before the buses arrive—

"Hey."

Chris gasps, annoyed with how startled it sounds, whips around with his clarinet swinging and his heavy bag giving him too much momentum so he almost trips over himself. Zach offers an amused smile from the corner, oppressively black clothes helping him blend into the shadows like fucking Batman.

"What's up?" Zach asks, quiet.

"What the _fuck_ is it with you?" Chris explodes, really loud in the abandoned room.

And they stare at one another for a beat while Chris's heart jumps into his throat. He's gotta get the fuck out of there, turns to leave—

"Where are you going?" He can hear Zach's footsteps, can sense his approach and his heat and scent and is simply too caught off guard or whatever to offer up any protest as Zach takes his bag and instrument and deposits them on the floor, backs Chris up against a locker since that's apparently his MO but does it differently with hands sliding more and eyes softer and closer and closer and his mouth is so so generously soft pressed up against Chris's like that.

Chris hears something that sounds suspiciously like a moan vibrate between them, refuses to believe it's come from him even as he clutches at Zach's arms and lets him insinuate his tongue into Chris's mouth. Chris is instantly debilitated by the wave of dizziness that seizes him, has barely got his bearings again when a second wave of terrified, blissful heat takes the lead. Zach retracts his mesmerizing mouth for a minute to remove Chris's glasses and stow them in Chris's pocket, dives back in so quickly it muffles Chris's indistinctly vocalized objections.

All Chris knows is that he needs to fuck up Zach's immaculate hair immediately, slides rough fingers into it to comb away the gel and Zach twitches and twists his own fingers into Chris's hair and pulls unforgivingly in retaliation. Chris can't comprehend the jolt of excitement that goes with Zach's sharp little tugs and their contrast with his hot, melty mouth.

Zach breaks the kiss to gasp for air and Chris takes the opportunity to unbalance him, push _him_ up against a locker for once and fit their hips together and watch Zach's eyes roll back for a minute before refocusing on Chris, all that intensity bottled and boiling and laid out for Chris to do with what he likes. He leans in to bite at Zach's ripened bottom lip, lets Zach suck his upper lip into his mouth and hold Chris's hips still to grind their erections together.

Chris can't fight the frantic, filthy impulses that have possessed him, licks up Zach's delectable jaw to his ear and speaks: "How much do you want me, Zach? Hm?" And Zach can only groan, nails digging into Chris's flesh. "Tell me."

Zach just turns his head to catch Chris's lips for a kiss, one hand stuttering over to the front of Chris's jeans and working his cock through the thick material.

" _Unnn_ ," Chris grits out, places his hand over Zach's and directs him, gets the friction he needs. Sneaks a look at Zach's face to find his mouth open and wet and panting, his eyes devoid of haughtiness and trained obsessively on their hands.

"Fuck," Zach whispers. "Fuck, let me . . ."

"You fucking faggot. You want my cock, don’t you?" Chris makes Zach look at him, fights the reflex for remorse at the sight of his lost expression.

Zach licks his lips and swallows. "I— _ah!_ " Chris shakes him too roughly, Zach's head smacking against the lockers.

"This isn't as fun on the other side, is it?"

Zach shivers and Chris shakes him again, more, gets a pathetic little moan this time.

"Goddammit, Zach. Do you want me or not? Tell me what the _fuck_ it is that you want."

Zach closes his eyes and continues licking his lips in an immensely distracting fashion until Chris has to rub his thumb over the kiss-bruised flesh and shiver. Zach opens his eyes again and, _God_ , completely bowls Chris over with his need and desire and not so childish anguish. "Want you so bad, Chris. You're _so_ fucking hot. Want your cock. Want, just, want . . . God, I want fucking _everything_ . . ."

Chris is panting now, hates how much he _loves_ the mix of fear, adrenaline, pity, wrongness, crippling lust. "You wanna—?"

"God, _anything_ . . . Just. _Please_."

Chris nods vaguely and kisses him, moans into his mouth and grinds into his hand. Zach responds with doubled intensity, sucking and biting at his lips, their tongues battling sweetly for contrast. He urges Chris's hands away so he can unbutton Chris's jeans, suck on his tongue, unzip them as he descends to his knees. Chris's head falls back against the lockers with a thud at the first swipe of Zach's tongue on his cock, lets out a too-audible gasp when Zach sucks the head into his mouth and flicks his tongue and holds Chris's capacity for critical thinking captive.

He doesn't waste much time teasing Chris, though, and soon Chris's cock is gliding smoothly in and out of the mind-blowingly heated pressure of Zach's mouth and Chris is disastrously close already with the mere knowledge of what is happening. That, coupled with his lack of control over the building pleasure, the slippery softness of Zach's busy, taunting tongue—

Zach moans around Chris's cock and it makes Chris look down, which makes Chris offer an answering moan which makes Zach look up at him through his eyelashes with those _gorgeous_ fucking eyes and Chris's cock disappearing between those red red lips.

" _Ohhhhh._ Oh, God. Oh God just keep looking at me and . . . _yeah_. _Oh_ —" Chris comes in Zach's mouth, hands flying helplessly to the back of his head and keeping him there. Zach coughs but recovers valiantly, spits out excess come as soon as Chris collapses in a boneless heap on the floor.

Zach crawls over to him, sweaty and just as dazed, mindless toothy grin monopolizing his face and hair wonderfully destroyed. Chris grins back like an idiot, reaches for Zach's belt to give him a hand . . .

Zach bats him away, throws an arm around Chris's shoulder to pull him closer instead, odd and out of character but Chris is too blissed out to care all that much.

Chris still hasn't quite caught his breath when he speaks, words more or less wheezing: "Don't you want me to—?"

"I, uh, I already . . . Yeah."

"Oh." Chris laughs. "Right." They lay there panting on the dusty floor in silence for awhile, awkwardness closing in on them rapidly but Chris refuses to acknowledge it, is perfectly content to stay close and warm and enveloped in Zach Quinto, de-clawed. Or whatever.

Zach clears his throat and Chris feels more than hears it. Anxiousness begins to set in, reality teetering and poised to come crashing down on them as soon as Zach opens his mouth . . .

"You know," Zach says, "Frost is like ten times more awesome than fucking Emily Dickinson. Have you ever read—?"

The bell rings and they both laugh and look at each other and Chris has this flighty, free feeling like he might not be able to _stop_ laughing and Zach seems to feel it too, leans closer without menace to kiss him.

*


End file.
